Fic: He Doesn't Love Him
Title: He Doesn't Love Him
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: England/Romano, some Spain -> Romano
Characters: Romano, England, America, Canada, Germany, Veneziano, France, Spain
Warnings: Language, small amount of haircurl action, nations being stalkery, this relationship is bizarre
Notes: De-anon from the kink meme; sequel to I Don't Like You; both originally written for this prompt.
Summary: You know a couple are infatuated when they don't even notice the myriad nations hiding in bushes and stalking their date.
-
“This is so stupid,” Romano says affectionately, tightening the hold of his arm around England’s elbow. “Why would you take me somewhere like this? I’m not a kid, you know.”
England turns to face him, cupping a hand just beside his lover’s forehead to keep the sun out of his eyes and taking the opportunity to stroke his fingertips against the ends of Romano’s hair. “Forgive me if I thought it would match your level of emotional maturity.”
“Bastard,” Romano mutters, leaning upwards; and then, against England’s lips, “Your funfairs are so tacky.”
England wraps his arms around Romano’s waist and tugs his body close, kissing at his jaw. “I think it suits you.”
“Oh yeah?” Romano raises an eyebrow, one of his hands in England’s back pocket. “How?”
“It’s childlike, noisy and grates on your nerves.”
Romano laughs a little, strokes the soft skin at England’s nape. “Fuck you.”
*
America, safely hidden behind a pair of oversized plastic comedy sunglasses, folds his arms upon the picnic table and glowers across the field at the couple. He has to admit, he is sort of impressed by their commitment to this. After he first realised the truth of it all - that there is no way that their behaviour is genuine, that it is all a sham and a con, most likely aimed at duping him, America, Land of the Free - he had never suspected that they would actually go out together. Following the two of them here only to find them holding hands and making puppy eyes had not been what he anticipated. It is surprising. It is impressive. It is disturbing.
“Try to pull the wool over my eyes, will they,” America mutters from around his hot dog.
“America,” Canada says with eternal, world-weary resignation, “what are we doing here?”
“This is all a trick!” America exclaims, giving a gesture that sends ketchup spattering onto his t-shirt and draws Canada’s attention to where the couple are wrestling with the wheel of a bumper car, their spare hands tangled together on the seat between them. “They’re doing it to get to me, they must be. But they can’t keep the façade up forever.”
“Why would they be trying to trick you now, when they don’t even know you’re here?” Canada asks, sensibly.
Romano has lost control of the car and crashed it into the side of the arena. He and England are laughing, practically leaning on one another, and he lifts their intertwined hands and kisses the tops of England’s knuckles fondly.
America narrows his eyes. “It’s a very thorough trick.”
Canada leans his head on his hand. “Well you look like an idiot.”
“Hey!” America turns, affronted, making the enormous sunglasses wobble dangerously. “I have to disguise myself, don’t I?”
“I’m not in disguise,” Canada says, “and they haven’t noticed me.”
“Who said that?”
Canada rolls his eyes.
*
“Good grief,” England says somewhat shakily, leaning heavily on his arm around Romano’s shoulders, “I can’t even walk straight.”
Romano snorts, steadying his hand reassuringly in the centre of England’s back. “Tell me something I don’t know, drunkard.”
England wobbles to a stop: his legs are unsteady and he feels as though he might fall at any moment. “I do blame myself, actually.”
“So you should.” Romano moves around in front of him, encouraging his partner to lean on him, supporting his weight while he gets his balance back. “For the drinking, you mean?”
“For letting you have control of the wheel. I should have known better than that.”
Romano strokes England’s hair calmingly. “And your driving is supposed to be better? Admit it - I get us to places faster.”
“If ‘places’ means ‘walls, other vehicles and pedestrians’.” England pushes himself off a little from Romano’s chest and smiles gratefully at him. “Now let go of me, I don’t need this.”
“Learn to lie, idiot.” Romano tugs England’s face closer and kisses him chastely - or tries to, but England manages to twist it a little beyond what he had intended; an achievement largely thanks to the sudden presence of his hand in Romano’s hair, just barely making contact with that strand. Romano does not even consider going red, and certainly does not make a soft inadvertent moan into the kiss as he presses their chests together, because that would be stupid and it doesn’t even feel that good, but if he had done that then maybe it would have been perfectly understandable, damn it.
After far too long (or maybe not long enough; Romano’s sense of public decency is at war with the contents of his pants), England takes his hand away and moves them apart to smirk at him. “Are you hungry? You haven’t eaten anything yet,” he comments as if he has not done anything.
Romano requires a few seconds to put his brain back in order and think about the potato bastard naked before he can reply. “Y-yeah, well, why would I want to? That food’s way scarier than the ghost train is, I bet.”
“Oh, really?” England says, raising those absurd eyebrows that Romano has never once thought of as being quite striking and distinguished, actually. “And here I’d decided not to take you on the ghost train in case you wet yourself in fear. Are you saying I was mistaken?”
“As if your kiddy little train could scare me,” Romano scoffs, not having hesitated in the slightest. “It couldn’t scare a two-year-old - no, it couldn’t scare Veneziano.”
And, if it is scary, I can hold onto your arm and you’ll make me feel better, he doesn’t say.
England takes his hand reassuringly, stroking along his wrist with a thumb. “Just because your record is marginally better than your brother’s, that doesn’t make it a good record. After you, then?”
*
Germany has a giant inflatable hammer in one hand, a lollipop the size of his head in the other, and a frown on his face. “Italy...”
“Shh!” Veneziano bites his tongue in concentration, up on his toes and leaning out over the ring of gently-flowing water, bamboo pole at the ready. “I’m choosing a duck!”
Germany stares at the innumerable plastic ducks bobbing steadily past on the artificial current, each looking at him with one eye. None of them have any suggestions.
“I thought we came here for a reason?” he tries again.
Veneziano makes a lunge for a large-ish duck with a dark red beak, but fails to hook it properly and sends it skidding away across the water. “We did!”
That had, at least, been how this began: Veneziano pleading for Germany to come with me and follow them today because they haven’t been acting normal and I think England might be waiting to do something terrible but he’s really scary so I need someone big and muscley there with me! Germany, ever a strong-willed man, had dutifully come along, and stationed himself behind the helter-skelter as Veneziano indicated. As the date went on, however, it increasingly challenged Germany’s perception of reality, and watching the couple quickly began to feel uncomfortably like harassment. The moment it became apparent that England was not immediately about to throw Romano under the bumper cars or strangle him to death with a jelly snake, Germany had turned around to track down the other Italian brother - only to find him, utterly carefree, throwing miniature bean bags at a stack of tin cans.
Germany grips the back of Veneziano’s shirt to prevent him from toppling forwards over the railing. “So you’re not worried about your brother anymore?”
“What?” Veneziano twists the pole to one side, aims its metal hook at a pale pink duck that approaches rapidly. “Oh right. Is he okay?”
He is cuddled up to England in the front carriage of the ghost train as it waits to depart, and he is kissing him deeply with a leg slung over his knees.
“He seems fine,” Germany says, coughing slightly.
“Yay!” Veneziano falls against his chest, forearms damp, proudly displaying the underside of the duck. “I won a fish!”
Germany sighs.
*
The tiny train whirrs and clanks to a halt, and the passengers disembark, most laughing but some looking shaken. England is about to get out when he notices Romano’s hands clamped like vices around the handle in front of them and his eyes fixed straight ahead, each part of him looking just as immobile as all the others. At once he sits back in the carriage and leans over, concerned; Romano has a rigid look of forced scorn on his face, but it is fraying at the edges and the colour of his knuckles speaks volumes.
England puts his hand over one of those too-tight fists. “Don’t tell me it actually scared you.”
“That was such bullshit,” Romano announces suddenly, his voice too loud as he endeavours to climb across England’s lap and out of the train.
England smiles in relief to hear the curse, jumping out hastily and offering his hand to his partner. It is quickly accepted (“Fuck off, I’m not a woman”) and Romano clambers gracelessly onto the small wooden platform and crosses his arms over his torso.
“It was so stupid,” he informs England as they return to ground level. “That spooky music was ridiculous. And the bit where it all went quiet and still and then the skeleton fell down from the ceiling? That was lame.”
“Mm,” England says dryly, guiding the two of them back out into the brightness and noise of the field, his hand warm and comforting on Romano’s shoulder. “I could tell from the way you shrieked and grabbed my arm.”
“A-and that time after that, when something touched your hair and it felt just like a person’s hand?” Romano goes on shakily, without even acknowledging the words. “Yeah, that was idiotic.”
“What?” England stops walking and wrinkles his brow at him, appearing honestly bewildered. “When did that happen?”
Romano stops too, instantly, and stares back at him, caught in between his own contradictory feelings of horror and incredulity. “You’re kidding. Someone touched me on the back of the head - no, something - but it felt like a hand and it sort of stroked and it...” He stops speaking, the colour leaving his face as he sees England’s blank expression.
“No,” England says, shaking his head slowly, “I never felt that. Are you sure it really happened?”
“D-don’t mess me around,” Romano says, taking a wavering step backwards. “It’s not funny.”
England gives him a steady look. “I’m being serious.”
Romano hesitates, terror-stricken - and then throws himself at England with a wail and a sob. England catches him and holds him close, stroking his back soothingly and whispering words of comfort while Romano buries his face in England’s neck and whimpers.
*
“And now he’s burying his face in England’s neck and whimpering,” says France, adjusting the focus with one slender finger.
Spain moans, hands clamped over his ears. “Alright, that’s enough! I don’t want to hear any more!”
France lowers his binoculars and looks at him pointedly. “You do recall that you are the only reason we are here, I assume?”
“I know,” Spain whines, slumping over until his nose is practically touching the surface of his cold coffee. “But that’s because I have to be! I have a duty to protect my little Romano and make sure he’s alright.”
France massages his temples with his fingertips. Never let it be said that he does not do favours (or favours, come to that) for his friends, but he is growing weary of this venture. Sitting in cafés and providing live narration of other people’s romantic but non-sexual escapades has never been his idea of a good time - especially when the couple is one that makes his head hurt. At this point, even imagining himself as the meat in the English-Southern Italian sandwich is losing its novelty.
“What about now?” Spain asks, as France knew he would. “What’s going on?”
France deliberately takes his time in replacing the binoculars at his eyes. “They’re moving apart. England is touching Romano’s cheek.”
Spain makes a sound of vexation and bitterness. “That should be me comforting him.”
“And being kicked and hit for your trouble,” France murmurs under his breath.
“That’s how he shows that he cares!” Spain says indignantly. “All this kissing and hugging he does with England... he doesn’t love him at all!”
France gives a polished, theatrical shrug. “If you say so, my dear. They are kissing on the lips.”
Spain’s forehead drops onto the table. “Doesn’t love him at all,” he mutters.
*
The ground, all brown-scattered green and the empty food wrappers trodden into it, is gently drawing away from under them. Across the field the fair is winding down, its colours mellowing in the dispersing light. Children are asleep on their parents’ backs, and a group of boys clusters around the Test Your Strength machine. The blond twins at the picnic table have long since given up and left. The excitable young man and the friend he uses as a luggage rack are leaving now, both seemingly weary. Romano and England are aware of none of this.
The carriage creaks and sways loosely in the wind as it bears them out from the residue of empty stalls and nearly-empty rides. Romano holds onto the bar crossing over their laps, tips his head back and watches the sky approach.
“The weather here is lousy,” he says softly, lulled by the gentle turning and rocking of the wheel. “You call this summer?”
“I make up for it by actually getting things done during the middle of the day.” England is putting the cost of the ride thoroughly to waste: ignoring the view afforded to them as they slowly begin to descend once more in favour of watching the dusk and shadow move over Romano’s face. His hand finds one of his partner’s upon the cold metal bar and tightens around it, feels the warmth encased beneath the smooth skin.
Romano shifts along the bench and rests himself easily against England’s side. Silence sits warmly between them while they pass the bottom of the wheel and start to rise again; he kicks one foot lethargically. “And then you use the nights for binge drinking and vomiting,” he says at last. “I think I’d rather be hot, thanks.”
England tips his face in closer, catching Romano’s attention so that he looks over and lifts his eyebrows slightly. “As if there’s anything remotely hot about a person like you.”
For a moment, Romano just blinks back, slowly, while a flush forms minutely upon his cheekbones. Then he leans in, steady while the carriage wavers and swings, and presses their lips together as they are lifted side by side into the sky.
-
Watch me set fics in modern-day England so that I don't have to do any research. :|
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: England/Romano, some Spain -> Romano
Characters: Romano, England, America, Canada, Germany, Veneziano, France, Spain
Warnings: Language, small amount of haircurl action, nations being stalkery, this relationship is bizarre
Notes: De-anon from the kink meme; sequel to I Don't Like You; both originally written for this prompt.
Summary: You know a couple are infatuated when they don't even notice the myriad nations hiding in bushes and stalking their date.
-
“This is so stupid,” Romano says affectionately, tightening the hold of his arm around England’s elbow. “Why would you take me somewhere like this? I’m not a kid, you know.”
England turns to face him, cupping a hand just beside his lover’s forehead to keep the sun out of his eyes and taking the opportunity to stroke his fingertips against the ends of Romano’s hair. “Forgive me if I thought it would match your level of emotional maturity.”
“Bastard,” Romano mutters, leaning upwards; and then, against England’s lips, “Your funfairs are so tacky.”
England wraps his arms around Romano’s waist and tugs his body close, kissing at his jaw. “I think it suits you.”
“Oh yeah?” Romano raises an eyebrow, one of his hands in England’s back pocket. “How?”
“It’s childlike, noisy and grates on your nerves.”
Romano laughs a little, strokes the soft skin at England’s nape. “Fuck you.”
*
America, safely hidden behind a pair of oversized plastic comedy sunglasses, folds his arms upon the picnic table and glowers across the field at the couple. He has to admit, he is sort of impressed by their commitment to this. After he first realised the truth of it all - that there is no way that their behaviour is genuine, that it is all a sham and a con, most likely aimed at duping him, America, Land of the Free - he had never suspected that they would actually go out together. Following the two of them here only to find them holding hands and making puppy eyes had not been what he anticipated. It is surprising. It is impressive. It is disturbing.
“Try to pull the wool over my eyes, will they,” America mutters from around his hot dog.
“America,” Canada says with eternal, world-weary resignation, “what are we doing here?”
“This is all a trick!” America exclaims, giving a gesture that sends ketchup spattering onto his t-shirt and draws Canada’s attention to where the couple are wrestling with the wheel of a bumper car, their spare hands tangled together on the seat between them. “They’re doing it to get to me, they must be. But they can’t keep the façade up forever.”
“Why would they be trying to trick you now, when they don’t even know you’re here?” Canada asks, sensibly.
Romano has lost control of the car and crashed it into the side of the arena. He and England are laughing, practically leaning on one another, and he lifts their intertwined hands and kisses the tops of England’s knuckles fondly.
America narrows his eyes. “It’s a very thorough trick.”
Canada leans his head on his hand. “Well you look like an idiot.”
“Hey!” America turns, affronted, making the enormous sunglasses wobble dangerously. “I have to disguise myself, don’t I?”
“I’m not in disguise,” Canada says, “and they haven’t noticed me.”
“Who said that?”
Canada rolls his eyes.
*
“Good grief,” England says somewhat shakily, leaning heavily on his arm around Romano’s shoulders, “I can’t even walk straight.”
Romano snorts, steadying his hand reassuringly in the centre of England’s back. “Tell me something I don’t know, drunkard.”
England wobbles to a stop: his legs are unsteady and he feels as though he might fall at any moment. “I do blame myself, actually.”
“So you should.” Romano moves around in front of him, encouraging his partner to lean on him, supporting his weight while he gets his balance back. “For the drinking, you mean?”
“For letting you have control of the wheel. I should have known better than that.”
Romano strokes England’s hair calmingly. “And your driving is supposed to be better? Admit it - I get us to places faster.”
“If ‘places’ means ‘walls, other vehicles and pedestrians’.” England pushes himself off a little from Romano’s chest and smiles gratefully at him. “Now let go of me, I don’t need this.”
“Learn to lie, idiot.” Romano tugs England’s face closer and kisses him chastely - or tries to, but England manages to twist it a little beyond what he had intended; an achievement largely thanks to the sudden presence of his hand in Romano’s hair, just barely making contact with that strand. Romano does not even consider going red, and certainly does not make a soft inadvertent moan into the kiss as he presses their chests together, because that would be stupid and it doesn’t even feel that good, but if he had done that then maybe it would have been perfectly understandable, damn it.
After far too long (or maybe not long enough; Romano’s sense of public decency is at war with the contents of his pants), England takes his hand away and moves them apart to smirk at him. “Are you hungry? You haven’t eaten anything yet,” he comments as if he has not done anything.
Romano requires a few seconds to put his brain back in order and think about the potato bastard naked before he can reply. “Y-yeah, well, why would I want to? That food’s way scarier than the ghost train is, I bet.”
“Oh, really?” England says, raising those absurd eyebrows that Romano has never once thought of as being quite striking and distinguished, actually. “And here I’d decided not to take you on the ghost train in case you wet yourself in fear. Are you saying I was mistaken?”
“As if your kiddy little train could scare me,” Romano scoffs, not having hesitated in the slightest. “It couldn’t scare a two-year-old - no, it couldn’t scare Veneziano.”
And, if it is scary, I can hold onto your arm and you’ll make me feel better, he doesn’t say.
England takes his hand reassuringly, stroking along his wrist with a thumb. “Just because your record is marginally better than your brother’s, that doesn’t make it a good record. After you, then?”
*
Germany has a giant inflatable hammer in one hand, a lollipop the size of his head in the other, and a frown on his face. “Italy...”
“Shh!” Veneziano bites his tongue in concentration, up on his toes and leaning out over the ring of gently-flowing water, bamboo pole at the ready. “I’m choosing a duck!”
Germany stares at the innumerable plastic ducks bobbing steadily past on the artificial current, each looking at him with one eye. None of them have any suggestions.
“I thought we came here for a reason?” he tries again.
Veneziano makes a lunge for a large-ish duck with a dark red beak, but fails to hook it properly and sends it skidding away across the water. “We did!”
That had, at least, been how this began: Veneziano pleading for Germany to come with me and follow them today because they haven’t been acting normal and I think England might be waiting to do something terrible but he’s really scary so I need someone big and muscley there with me! Germany, ever a strong-willed man, had dutifully come along, and stationed himself behind the helter-skelter as Veneziano indicated. As the date went on, however, it increasingly challenged Germany’s perception of reality, and watching the couple quickly began to feel uncomfortably like harassment. The moment it became apparent that England was not immediately about to throw Romano under the bumper cars or strangle him to death with a jelly snake, Germany had turned around to track down the other Italian brother - only to find him, utterly carefree, throwing miniature bean bags at a stack of tin cans.
Germany grips the back of Veneziano’s shirt to prevent him from toppling forwards over the railing. “So you’re not worried about your brother anymore?”
“What?” Veneziano twists the pole to one side, aims its metal hook at a pale pink duck that approaches rapidly. “Oh right. Is he okay?”
He is cuddled up to England in the front carriage of the ghost train as it waits to depart, and he is kissing him deeply with a leg slung over his knees.
“He seems fine,” Germany says, coughing slightly.
“Yay!” Veneziano falls against his chest, forearms damp, proudly displaying the underside of the duck. “I won a fish!”
Germany sighs.
*
The tiny train whirrs and clanks to a halt, and the passengers disembark, most laughing but some looking shaken. England is about to get out when he notices Romano’s hands clamped like vices around the handle in front of them and his eyes fixed straight ahead, each part of him looking just as immobile as all the others. At once he sits back in the carriage and leans over, concerned; Romano has a rigid look of forced scorn on his face, but it is fraying at the edges and the colour of his knuckles speaks volumes.
England puts his hand over one of those too-tight fists. “Don’t tell me it actually scared you.”
“That was such bullshit,” Romano announces suddenly, his voice too loud as he endeavours to climb across England’s lap and out of the train.
England smiles in relief to hear the curse, jumping out hastily and offering his hand to his partner. It is quickly accepted (“Fuck off, I’m not a woman”) and Romano clambers gracelessly onto the small wooden platform and crosses his arms over his torso.
“It was so stupid,” he informs England as they return to ground level. “That spooky music was ridiculous. And the bit where it all went quiet and still and then the skeleton fell down from the ceiling? That was lame.”
“Mm,” England says dryly, guiding the two of them back out into the brightness and noise of the field, his hand warm and comforting on Romano’s shoulder. “I could tell from the way you shrieked and grabbed my arm.”
“A-and that time after that, when something touched your hair and it felt just like a person’s hand?” Romano goes on shakily, without even acknowledging the words. “Yeah, that was idiotic.”
“What?” England stops walking and wrinkles his brow at him, appearing honestly bewildered. “When did that happen?”
Romano stops too, instantly, and stares back at him, caught in between his own contradictory feelings of horror and incredulity. “You’re kidding. Someone touched me on the back of the head - no, something - but it felt like a hand and it sort of stroked and it...” He stops speaking, the colour leaving his face as he sees England’s blank expression.
“No,” England says, shaking his head slowly, “I never felt that. Are you sure it really happened?”
“D-don’t mess me around,” Romano says, taking a wavering step backwards. “It’s not funny.”
England gives him a steady look. “I’m being serious.”
Romano hesitates, terror-stricken - and then throws himself at England with a wail and a sob. England catches him and holds him close, stroking his back soothingly and whispering words of comfort while Romano buries his face in England’s neck and whimpers.
*
“And now he’s burying his face in England’s neck and whimpering,” says France, adjusting the focus with one slender finger.
Spain moans, hands clamped over his ears. “Alright, that’s enough! I don’t want to hear any more!”
France lowers his binoculars and looks at him pointedly. “You do recall that you are the only reason we are here, I assume?”
“I know,” Spain whines, slumping over until his nose is practically touching the surface of his cold coffee. “But that’s because I have to be! I have a duty to protect my little Romano and make sure he’s alright.”
France massages his temples with his fingertips. Never let it be said that he does not do favours (or favours, come to that) for his friends, but he is growing weary of this venture. Sitting in cafés and providing live narration of other people’s romantic but non-sexual escapades has never been his idea of a good time - especially when the couple is one that makes his head hurt. At this point, even imagining himself as the meat in the English-Southern Italian sandwich is losing its novelty.
“What about now?” Spain asks, as France knew he would. “What’s going on?”
France deliberately takes his time in replacing the binoculars at his eyes. “They’re moving apart. England is touching Romano’s cheek.”
Spain makes a sound of vexation and bitterness. “That should be me comforting him.”
“And being kicked and hit for your trouble,” France murmurs under his breath.
“That’s how he shows that he cares!” Spain says indignantly. “All this kissing and hugging he does with England... he doesn’t love him at all!”
France gives a polished, theatrical shrug. “If you say so, my dear. They are kissing on the lips.”
Spain’s forehead drops onto the table. “Doesn’t love him at all,” he mutters.
*
The ground, all brown-scattered green and the empty food wrappers trodden into it, is gently drawing away from under them. Across the field the fair is winding down, its colours mellowing in the dispersing light. Children are asleep on their parents’ backs, and a group of boys clusters around the Test Your Strength machine. The blond twins at the picnic table have long since given up and left. The excitable young man and the friend he uses as a luggage rack are leaving now, both seemingly weary. Romano and England are aware of none of this.
The carriage creaks and sways loosely in the wind as it bears them out from the residue of empty stalls and nearly-empty rides. Romano holds onto the bar crossing over their laps, tips his head back and watches the sky approach.
“The weather here is lousy,” he says softly, lulled by the gentle turning and rocking of the wheel. “You call this summer?”
“I make up for it by actually getting things done during the middle of the day.” England is putting the cost of the ride thoroughly to waste: ignoring the view afforded to them as they slowly begin to descend once more in favour of watching the dusk and shadow move over Romano’s face. His hand finds one of his partner’s upon the cold metal bar and tightens around it, feels the warmth encased beneath the smooth skin.
Romano shifts along the bench and rests himself easily against England’s side. Silence sits warmly between them while they pass the bottom of the wheel and start to rise again; he kicks one foot lethargically. “And then you use the nights for binge drinking and vomiting,” he says at last. “I think I’d rather be hot, thanks.”
England tips his face in closer, catching Romano’s attention so that he looks over and lifts his eyebrows slightly. “As if there’s anything remotely hot about a person like you.”
For a moment, Romano just blinks back, slowly, while a flush forms minutely upon his cheekbones. Then he leans in, steady while the carriage wavers and swings, and presses their lips together as they are lifted side by side into the sky.
-
Watch me set fics in modern-day England so that I don't have to do any research. :|